Charm
by draigonfire
Summary: A bet gone awry results in a battle of wits and wills between the Prince of Slytherin and his most disagreeable subject. He has everything to lose, she could care less, and the clock has just started ticking. Let the charming begin. DG


A/N Okay so it's been…an eternity since I updated Even Heroes Fall. I considered dropping it, but I really do like that story so…I'm working on it. I promise. But in the meantime, enjoy this three-part fic.

**Charm**

Part I

In every bad turn of life, everyone wants to blame someone else. It's easier that way, say the scientists who analyze particles and human emotion and nuclear physics, because analyzing a desolate situation and realizing that personal stupidity is the cause never quite ameliorates the situation itself. In fact, it tends to do just the opposite. But then there's always the problem of the occasional few who always want to blame themselves. The few who, despite trying to pinpoint a villain to direct anger at, always end up morosely examining their own flaws, their own misjudgements, their own miserable fates.

The scientists who anaylze particles and human emotion and nuclear physics can't seem to decide why this is; some say such people suffer from an acute perpetual depression, while others argue they are merely selfless human beings, who cannot help their innately giving and selfless natures. This is, of course, an even larger problem than blaming oneself in the first place, because many times dispositions are ingrained in the genetics, and even these remarkable scientists have not yet been able to detect mood temperments well enough to alter them.

But I have digressed, because Draco Malfoy does not have this problem.

It is not his fault, you see, and he bloody well knows that. Truthfully, nothing is really ever his fault when told from his point of view, but this particular pickle he has managed to get himself into really, honestly, truly isn't his fault.

At least, not from the onset.

From the onset, this predicament _is_, as he now so angrily declares, my fault. Well, if you want to get technical, it's the fault of gambling and human greed and Hogwarts' lack of ability to enforce rules. But I suppose it's easier for Malfoy to blame me, as it's always easier to be angry at something tangible. I explain to him repeatedly that while I may have set the series of events into motion, he always has a choice, and his own mistakes carry him down the path he is traveling now.

Malfoy is not appeased with this explanation, because, as I've mentioned earlier, Malfoy does not believe he makes mistakes.

Typical behaviour for a Malfoy, you might say, but let me backtrack a little, because Draco Malfoy is not the same sneering boy Harry Potter declined friendship to years ago, and nor is he the withering, cowardly shadow of his father. No, Draco Malfoy is the Prince of Slytherin, Head Boy, quidditch captain, and more closed up than a Gringotts vault. He gives orders, never takes them, and rarely sees anyone – even a Slytherin – as his equal.

Except, maybe, me. But that's different, because it'd a bit difficult to be best mates with somebody you find below you, isn't it? Don't get me wrong, Malfoy and I are nothing like that scarhead and his besotten sidekick Weasley. Firstly, we have no deranged mudblood Head Girl tagging after us, and secondly, we are, if anything, equals. If it's a matter of money, well, everyone knows that the Zabini Estate is just as large as Malfoy Manor – and that's not counting our lake. As for quidditch, I've never been as interested or dedicated to the sport as him. Admittedly, he receives higher marks than me, but it's not a matter which incites jealousy, because I'm sure if I spent my time intensely studying something other than the female anatomy I'd get fairly admirable marks, too. And they're decent now, I'll have you know. I may not be Head Boy, but I _am_ a prefect, and that says something, now doesn't it?

Not to say Malfoy doesn't like girls. He does, a fact attested by his ample stack of Playwizard. He likes girls, and they like him, but he's busy and selective and his mind works in this odd way that allows him to be more interested in quidditch than Sierra Iverran's perfect rack. I think maybe he's just a bit more competitive than me, and that's why he cares about beating out the insufferable Granger in school, and stupid Potter in quidditch. It makes sense, I suppose, if you think about the Malfoy pride. We Zabini's have pride – all Slytherins do – but I certainly didn't have parents like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

If I've given you the image that Malfoy is some school-crazy-but-athletic anti-socialite, however, you obviously haven't been paying enough attention. Because I never said that he doesn't know how to have fun – he is, after all, the Prince of Slytherin. Fun is his middle name, though not literally, because no pureblood in their right mind would give their child such an inane middle name.

And fun is exactly what we're having the night it all begins.

* * *

I think it was Parkinson who suggested playing The Game. That's what we call it in Slytherin, "The Game." In quotes and capital letters. It was Parkinson's idea – she says it's subtle and mysterious and ominous all at the same time. I personally think she just lacked the originality to think of a better name. 

The Game is simple. In truth, it's not much of a game – more of a random assemblage of tasks we carry out for our own personal entertainment. Felix Mably, who used to live in the States, introduced the concept to us – told us of a game they used to play called "Spin the Bottle." But never would we Slytherins play a game transcended from muggles, as most everything in the American magical world is, and never would we play a game introduced to us by anyone named Felix. With a few variations, The Game became our game – risky, dangerous, and highly intriguing, just the way we like things.

But what I think is simple you might not, so listen carefully. The Game centers on an apparatus that really is nothing more than a wand. On one end, there's a silver Dragon scale, and on the other end there's a green one. Each time it spins, a task is revealed – the person to whom the silver scale points dictates the nature of the task, and the person to whom the green scale points is obliged to carry it out. The number of tasks which can be alotted per night depends on the number of days since we'd last played – for instance, if we played The Game on a Monday, and then spun again on Tuesday, there would only be one spin – one task. As for the tasks themselves, we select a student from Hogwart's Student Inventory, which only the teachers and Head Boy and Girl possess, and they become the subject of the entire task.

Once, Gregory Goyle had to convince Susan Bones to cut his meat for him.

Failure to complete the task means exclusion from playing The Game for the rest of the term. It may not sound like much, but unless you're in Slytherin you wouldn't understand the shame of this exclusion. The Game is played at your own risk, but it's a risk most want to indulge anyhow.

This particular night, Parkinson storms into the common room late, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from what I'm sure is an encounter with her troll of a boytoy, Prescott. "Hello," she greets us in a slightly strained voice, and plops down before the fire. "Get out the Game Wand. I want to play tonight."

Malfoy is lounging on one of the sofas, an unread Potions text on his lap as Janey Willington sticks her tongue in his ear. "Haven't you played enough tonight?" He remarks, raising his eyebrows and directing his stare towards her misbuttoned blouse.

Parkinson has not the decency to blush. "In or out, Malfoy?" She retorts unashamed, adjusting her blouse and removing the Game Wand from its case.

"I don't know," Malfoy says as some of the remaining Slytherins begin to seat around Parkinson. "I think I might pass tonight."

"Oh play," I say, flicking my wand to dim the lights. "It isn't as if Janey Willington won't let you cop a feel tomorrow night."

Most girls would be insulted, of course, but not Janey. She simply stands up, archs her back so that her uniform stretches tightly across her (ample) chest, and grins her slow, sultry grin. "No need to be jealous," she cooes to me. "I'm knackered anyhow." She strolls off towards the bedchambers, and Malfoy, unfazed, joins the circle.

But that isn't the reason why Malfoy blames me now; no, it get worse.

There are seven spins tonight, because Parkinson is usually the one to initiate The Game and she has been unusually preoccupied with matters no sane person wishes to picture. As luck will have it, the fifth spin puts me on the silver end and Malfoy on the green. The audience we have tonight roars with excitement, because never before have Malfoy and I been pitted against one another.

"Well?" says Malfoy lazily, sitting back. "What will it be, Zabini?"

"The book," I demand, and Julia Prentiss hands it to me. Slowly, I begin flipping through the pages, looking for just the right person. Because, you see, a chance like this puts me in the upper hand, and I doubt it'll happen too often. "Let's go with a Gryffindor," I say, smirking at my best mate, and the chatting gets louder.

"No mudbloods," is all Malfoy says. "That would be too cruel."

Well, I'll give him that. I wouldn't even wish such a fate on Parkinson. So I continue to thumb through the pictures, running my fingers down their idiotically grinning faces for just the perfect person until…

"Weasley!"

Laughter breaks out amongst us, but Malfoy remains calm. "Potter's dog?" He asks in a smug voice. "I can break him, easy."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "Not Ron. Ginevra."

He frowns a bit now, obviously trying to place a name with a face. And it's not a terrible face, if you ask me, though nothing compared to girls like Janey Willington and Sierra Iverran. No, Ginevra Weasley isn't ugly, but she isn't pretty either – she's just there. I study her picture, which, unlike her equally pathetic counterparts, is not quite beaming. Instead, she has a small half-smile on her face, as if she is trying to decide whether or not she likes what she sees. I can see Ronald reflected in her features – in the spattering of freckles across her nose, in the curious arch of her eyebrows. Her hair, however, is a bit darker – still that shameful red but darker – and her nose a bit thinner.

"This one," I say, and hand the book to him.

"I know who she is," snaps Malfoy. "The one who follows disgustingly after Potter."

"Actually," Parkinson counters, "I haven't really seen her following after Potter lately. She went through a string of Gryffindor boys a while back in our fifth year, remember?"

"Then she's easy," concludes Malfoy. He looks less uncertain now, adjusting his tie as his smug smile returns to his face. "Which means this will be easy."

Now, I'm not exactly partial to men, but I'll admit that Malfoy is pretty good-looking. Most Slytherins are. He and I, however, are exact polar opposites: he carries an effeminate appeal with his lithe frame and pale skin, while I go for the masculine approach. I don't really see what women would want in girly boys, unless they're lesbian – which wouldn't be so bad to see, if you ask me – but Malfoy does, admittedly, have a share of girls lusting after him.

"But she's stopped rather randomly, hasn't she?" Sierra interrupts. "She's been celibate for a year now, poor thing. Celibate and lonely. And anyhow, Malfoy, Blaise hasn't specified the task."

"Why thank you," I say, smiling ingratiatingly at Sierra.

"Keep it in your pants, Zabini," Julia tells me sweetly, but her pale blue eyes are cold. I'd tell you that we'd gotten together, and she dislikes me because I broke her heart, but that would be lying. Of all the decent-looking girls in Slytherin, she's never had any interest in me nor I in her. She's one of those stiff girls, you see – pretty if you like the bookish sort but frosty as snow.

But I'm off subject again. "Tu espere," I reply in my best snooty faux-French accent. "I mean, what can you really expect from the French, hmm?"

Sierra laughs.

Julia narrows her eyes at me. "Why do you insist on saying I'm French?" she snaps in her lightly accented voice. "I went to Beaubaxtons for 5 years, and that's all the time I've ever even lived in France. Does Prentiss sound like a French name to you?"

"Let's get back to the game, shall we?" Parkinson says impatiently, and there are multiple murmurs of agreements around the circle. "So what'll it be, Blaise?"

I look at Malfoy, who returns my level gaze with calm gray eyes. "No offense, Zabini," he says in a bored voice. "But I don't think you're going to find anything too challenging with Weasley. I mean, look at the girl. She has a spastic dating record, which means she's unstable. She went through a good deal of guys and stopped randomly, which means she's probably dying for a good shag. And—"

It's at this moment that the idea comes into my head.

See, Malfoy may be feared and respected and lusted after at Hogwarts, but none of these come of his own social skills. For instance, his position in Slytherin is a byproduct of his family wealth and his ability to incite fear through ruthlessness. His attractiveness to girls comes from his physical appearance and the inexplicable way the female gender tends to long for things they simply can't have – re: the bad boy appeal. He's cold and callous and cruel, and utterly devoid of charm, and yet, maybe in the most paradoxical way, that _is_ his charm.

This being concluded, I realize that while Malfoy can make people submit to him or lust after him, the one thing he simply can't do is force a girl who inherently dislikes him to consider him worthy of friendship.

Malfoy has stopped talking by now, and he's looking at me with suspicion. "You'll befriend her," I announce when the room grows quiet.

His eyes actually bug out a little. "What?"

"It's perfect," I tell him. "Your task is to convince her that you're worthy of being her friend. Under a time constraint, of course."

"How long?" asks one of the sixth-years.

"Three weeks," I reply.

"Five," he says just as quickly, and it seems he's come out of his shock.

"Four," I say. "No negotiation."

He nods curtly. "Fine. This won't be that hard, you know. Ginevra Weasley. Wasn't she the one with the Tom Riddle incident back in our second year? She's weak. Come on, Zabini, I thought you wanted to give me a _challenge_."

I shrug.

As it turns out, Malfoy couldn't be more wrong.

* * *

Two days pass in anxious silence before Malfoy makes his first move. You probably imagine him passing time in his Head Boy quarters meticulously planning out his route of attack, and most likely he's done just that, but when the critical moment arrives his actions are clearly not pre-meditated. 

It's a Monday, if I remember correctly, and the week of the Hogsmeade trip. I'm just finishing my prefect rounds, and as I turn the corner I spot Malfoy and some girl in the alcove. He's got his arm across the door, blocking her exit – if, that is, she actually seeks one, and I duck back around the corner, squinting to make out her identity. And then she moves, and there's a glint of shiny mahogany hair, and I realize that it's Julia.

For a moment, everything feels still.

"Well?" I hear Malfoy demand.

They look nice together, I note, feeling a weird sort of swelling in my chest. Everything about Malfoy is so light – ethereal, with his silvery hair and pale skin and gray eyes, and Julia carries an earthy sort of aura about her. The contrast is one that, unexpectedly, suits Malfoy. But they aren't together. They couldn't be…could they?

Not that I care.

"Malfoy, you're too much," Julia's voice interrupts my thoughts. She has a rather lovely voice – soft and slightly lilting, I find myself thinking for a brief moment, and then I jolt myself back to reality.

"Filching our duties, are we," I say then, interrupting whatever conversation they were having as I saunter towards them.

He looks up, startled to see me, and in this moment of distraction Julia slips out from under his arm, looking none too pleased. "Well, reputation over responsibility for the Malfoys, right?" She says, and Malfoy narrows his eyes at her.

"I think I know how to approach the Weasley," he explains to me calmly, turning away from Julia. "And I was just asking Prentiss here her opinion, when she got all snitty on me."

"What makes you think I know how the Weas—how Ginevra Weasley thinks?" Julia demands. "You think we must have so much in common because we're girls?"

I smirk at her. "Nobody's accused you of being a girl, Jules," I say, and then the light blue of her eyes have turned to a darker, angrier shade as she crosses her arms and directs the famed Prentiss glare at me.

"You two," she seethes, "are incorrigable. How I got sorted into the same house as the lot of you I still fail to comprehend. Malfoy, maybe you don't believe me, but your so-called charms aren't going to work on this girl – or any sane, non-Malfoy fearing girl for that matter. If you think you can force her to be your friend, then you're in for a rude awakening, though none you don't deserve. And as for you, Blaise—" she turns towards me now "—_don't call me Jules_. You haven't the right; it's affectionate."

With that, she spins around sharply and storms towards the dungeons, hair flying out behind her. "Affectionate? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I mutter as we watch her leave. It's at the exact moment that Malfoy clutches my arm. Now, I may have a good twenty pounds of muscle on him, but let me tell you – his fingers just about pinched the life out of me then. "Malfoy," I say, rather annoyed, "If that's the way you hold a girl's hand, I'm not too surprised you haven't got a steady one."

He doesn't seem to be fazed by my insult. "Speak for yourself," he says impatiently, and then points to a figure coming towards us. "Look."

I squint, and then the reason for his excitement becomes apparent, because it's none other than Ginevra Weasley. Again, I'm struck by the odd aura about her, for she seems to carry both an air of plainness and determined independence that I never would've thought went together. Her long red hair – at least I'm assuming it's long – is pinned back in a tight, neat bun at the nape of her neck, and yet the first word that comes to mind isn't "boring", it's "clean."

"She seems tidy," I tell Malfoy, because somehow I don't think he'd understand my sentiments of her cleanliness.

If Malfoy hears me, he doesn't show it, because he's already strolling towards her, doing his walk. He has this manner of approaching girls, you see, which is one of his tactics in landing them, where he picks up his hips and legs in a certain manner to give an imposing air of refined dignity and irresistable desire.

I don't find it desirable in the least, of course, but then again I suppose that if I did, I wouldn't be such a witch-chaser myself.

"Weasley," he says in his calm, detached voice as I duck behind the corridor before she can see me. "Ginevra, is it?"

"Ginny," she says, and I'm surprised by the way her voice sounds. A person's voice and inflection can tell you a lot about them, if you listen closely enough. Hers is flat and matter-of-fact, which I think may be because of the person she's speaking with. Behind the wall of annoyed indifference there's a slight melodic lilt, which suggests she's a person of kindness and empathy. And her lips are stretched tight across her teeth, which proves it takes her a great deal of emotion and energy to keep her voice at a tinny, unnatural tone – emotion, I'm guessing, that stems from anger.

I told you voice can tell you a lot, didn't I?

"Pet names already, hmm Ginny?" Malfoy smirks, and she glares at him in a way much similar to Julia – with more hatred, of course.

"Ginevra would be a pet name," she says coolly, "Because nobody ever calls me that."

"And what if I called you Gin?" Malfoy persisted. "Would that be a pet name?"

There's a pause, as she studies him with lidded eyes. I can see a slight hint of surprise in them, though hidden with a great deal of wariness. "You could just stick with Weasley," she suggests rather icily. "And I could stick with Malfoy. Or, better yet, you could not talk to me at all and therefore we wouldn't need names for one another."

"Wait," Malfoy calls out as she starts to move past. I expect him to be at least somewhat panicked, but then I remember that it's _Malfoy_ I'm thinking of.

To my surprise, and most likely his, Ginny stops and crosses her arms. "What?" she replies, though not kindly.

"There's a hogsmeade trip this weekend," Malfoy begins.

Her eyes narrow. "So?"

"So I was thinking we could catch some supper there," He says nonchalantly, as if Weasleys and Malfoys socialize on a regular basis.

Ginny sputters, more in disbelief than anything. "Supper? With you? Malfoy, tell me you're joking."

He shrugs. "You could um, you could pick the place. Do you like French food? No wait, what am I saying, you're a Weasley, of course you haven't _had_ French…" He trails off here, because now she looks absolutely livid.

"Right, of course," Ginny says, rolling her eyes. "Us poor uncultured Weasleys who need guidance from rich and tasteful Malfoys like yourself. Why didn't I ask for help earlier?"

With one last withering glare in his direction, she turns again and begins to walk away. "That means yes, doesn't it?" Malfoy asks after her in one last attempt.

The finger she waves at him is answer enough.

* * *

You might think here that any ordinary boy would give up wooing Ginevra – excuse me, Ginny – Weasley for friendship, and most likely you'd be right. But if you think Malfoy would give up, then, well, you really don't know anything about Malfoy at all. 

He makes his second move not twelve hours after his first disastrous encounter with the redhead. And this time, it's in public.

We're sitting at the Slytherin table in our usual seats – right in the middle – when Ginny Weasley strolls in and takes a spot at the far end of her table. She's late, I note, because the rest of her Gryffindor cronies are well seated and eating, and thus nobody really sees her come in. Malfoy, however, does, because in that moment his head snaps up and his eyes narrow the way they do when he spots the snitch during a quidditch game.

Like prey, I think to myself, smiling.

There's no time to relate this thought to Malfoy though, because by the time I turn back to him he's already sauntering across the Great Hall towards Ginny. As he passes, the tables grow quiet because it's really not a usual sight that a Slytherin leaves his table to go anywhere but out. To Malfoy's credit, he doesn't seem at all bothered by the fact that he'll most likely meet his death at the hands of an angry trio, but then again Malfoy really isn't bothered by anything these days.

"Ginny," he says in a rather commanding voice as he comes to a full stop at their table. "Enjoying your pumpkin soup?"

She blinks owlishly, looking at him with great surprise written all over her face. She glances at her soup dumbfoundedly for a moment before turning that confused gaze back to him, and he smirks. "Malfoy," she finally says, "What the hell are you doing?"

He takes this as an invitation, because in one swift moment he's situated himself in the chair next to her. "What does it seem like I'm doing?" he replies in an uncharacteristically pleasant voice.

"Going insane," Ginny mutters, staring into her soup. The Great Hall is nearly entirely silent now, all the students fixated by this interlude. And I can't deny that it has an air of intrigue, even for the Slytherins that know precisely why Malfoy is acting so oddly. For Malfoy _always_ has a plan of attack, and this time the rest of us are in the dark.

You must be wondering about the professors and the codes of conduct and why nobody has stepped in to stop what's sure to be a slaughter of sorts. Well, it's the whole train wreck theory – these professors are, after all, human, and they do know the lingering hatred between Weasley and Malfoy, between Slytherin and Gryffindor – hell, Snape lives on it. But they're sitting there slack-jawed, lined up like dummies on display as they watch the scene unfold. This Malfoy can see, and this he ultimately uses to his advantage.

What neither of Ginny nor Malfoy can see as they continue to bicker is that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter are fast approaching, a rather murderous expression on their faces as they glare at Malfoy. "Ooh," says Parkinson from beside me, rubbing her hands together in glee, "This should be fun."

"It's not a game," Julia says beseechingly.

"No," I respond, "It's _The_ Game. Honestly, Jules, if you're so uptight and ethical, go join Gryffindor why don't you?"

Her angry retort is cut off as Weasley speaks, and our attention is riveted to the scene before us. "I'm going to give you three seconds to leave my sister alone," snarls Weasley, and Potter nods in agreement.

Malfoy lazily lifts himself from the chair, standing to his full height. He's slightly taller than Weasley, and a good deal taller than Potter, but while Potter has the same lithe Seeker's build, Weasley's stockier, more muscle, and thus they seem a pretty even match glaring at one another. "You're going to be seeing a lot more of me around your sister," He informs the two coldly. "We're going to have supper on Saturday."

"Excuse me!" exclaims Ginny, and she nearly upturns her bowl as she gets to her feet, arms folded angrily across her chest.

"She's not going anywhere," Weasley continues to glare at Malfoy as if his sister hasn't spoken at all. From where I'm sitting I can see he's made a grave mistake, because the look of incredulity she'd been directing towards Malfoy is suddenly focused on Weasley. And from the way there's a slight glimmer of triumph in Malfoy's steely eyes I realize that he knows this too. In fact, this is probably what he's planned from the very beginning.

Incredible.

"Ronald Weasley," Ginny says, and her voice is filled with ice. "You can't tell me what to do."

The edges of his ears turn pink. "You're my sister. And you're not going anywhere with this prat, end of story. Right, Harry?"

"Right," says the scarhead. He doesn't look so sure, though.

"Why would she want to go anywhere with you, hmm Malfoy?" Weasley goes on, and the slight resentment on Ginny's face flames to full out rage.

"Stop talking like I'm not here," she cries.

"Well, you don't want to go, right?" Weasley says impatiently.

"Isn't your brother right, Ginny?" Malfoy says in a low whisper.

She blanches, and he smirks.

Of course, I think to myself. _This_ is Malfoy's plan. He now has Ginny backed into a lose-lose situation, for if she doesn't go with him then her brother has just won whatever sibling power-struggle they'd been having. If she does, however, then, well, she'll spend the evening with her worst enemy. And I can wager that from the few seconds Malfoy spent with Ginny the night before, he knows just enough about her to ascertain which decision she'll make.

"No," she clears her throat. "I'm going, Ron. Deal with it."

There's a collective gasp amongst the Gryffindors.

"Wonderful," Malfoy's smirk grows even wider. "We'll meet at Gringotts at, say, six?"

Already there's a combination of total mortification and regret on her face. "Fine," she mumbles, and then hurries towards the exit. "Gringotts," we can all hear her muttering under her breath. "Stupid money-obsessive Slytherins."

Parkinson smiles proudly.

"Don't forget cunning," Malfoy calls after her.

And the Slytherins erupt into cheer.


End file.
